


See the butterfly in the blood

by chanderson



Series: Darkness and light in so much detail [1]
Category: The Beatles (Band)
Genre: Angst, Blood, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Self-Harm, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-09
Updated: 2018-09-02
Packaged: 2019-06-24 06:51:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15625107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chanderson/pseuds/chanderson
Summary: “You do not understand, schatzi. But maybe one day you will see,” she whispers, “that pain makes pleasure.”In which John finds out alcohol isn't the only way Paul numbs his pain.





	1. A Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The whole premise of this story is centered around self-harm so if that's triggering to you pls don't read! The characters offer a very romanticized view of self-harm that may make some people uncomfortable. 
> 
> Also I feel like (at least imo) the portrayls of John and Paul are both fairly negative. These aren't my opinions of them or anything, and this is all fiction. I don't think Paul ever self-harmed. 
> 
> Anyway, if you're all good with that, then feel free to proceed!
> 
> Chapter title taken from the instrumental piece at the beginning of Anthology 3.

**Paul**.

He learns about it from a bird in Hamburg.

He doesn’t know exactly why he chooses her for the night. There’s something dark about her that scares him. With hair black as tar and skin like fine paper, she stands by the bar and watches him.

She beckons for Paul with a long, knobby finger, sensuous and domineering, and it makes his spine tingle — from fear or pleasure, he can’t tell.

“Hello, schatzi,” she purrs. Her voice is sweet as a little girl’s, but the German accent sounds ugly on her tongue. Paul steps close enough to smell the beer on her breath, stares down into her startlingly pale-blue eyes.

“I have a room,” Paul murmurs and runs his fingers through her hair, cut in a choppy, amateurish imitation of the European style. She shakes her head and chastely kisses the corner of his mouth.

“Come with me.”

“You should know I don’t have any, uh…” he makes a show of tugging on the insides of his empty pockets and shrugs. “No money.” She laughs and kisses him full on the lips.

“For you,” she traces Paul’s lips with a flick of her tongue, “I am free.” The comment sounds more crass than seductive in her broken English, but Paul’s cock twitches anyway.

“Okay,” he whispers.

“Come.” She slips her hand through his and pulls him outside.

She takes him to her apartment.

It’s cramped and charmless, stinking vaguely of mildew and cigarette smoke. Empty inhaler shells litter the small kitchen counter, and he remembers Stu explaining it one time, using the Benzedrine to get high. She notices him looking.

“Do you want?” Paul quickly shakes his head and peels his jacket off, draping it over the arm of the worn couch.

“Just you,” he says, a gentle reminder of why they’re here. She nods in understanding, a dangerous glint in her eyes.

Her bed is nothing more than an old mattress sitting on the floor, but it’s still more inviting than anything he’s slept on in the past months. He eagerly sheds his clothes and watches her do the same. The apartment is drafty, and he shivers when the cold air hits the tip of his hot cock. He’s only semi-erect, but he isn’t embarrassed about it. They haven’t started yet.

She feels impossibly delicate in his arms, like a fragile baby bird, and Paul’s almost afraid to touch her. His mouth leaves aggravated, red spots where he sucks on her neck and shoulders. Her skin is nearly translucent, and her veins look like rivers snaking across a map. He takes her breast into his mouth and sucks, curling his tongue over her nipple.

When she grasps his cock, he’s surprised by how strong her grip is. All at once, she pushes him back onto the bed and straddles his lap. His cock flexes against his stomach, and she makes an appreciative noise, cooing down at him.

“Pretty boy,” she tells him, and he flushes in embarrassment. He opens his mouth to respond, but she kisses him and the words die in his throat.

He doesn’t particularly like kissing her. There’s no pattern or structure to it. It leaves him feeling like he’s always two steps behind her, struggling to keep up.

“Do you want to…” He trails off and motions for her to move to the bottom, but she shakes her head and rolls his nipple between her fingers.

“We stay.”

Paul doesn’t like being on the bottom — it strips away his control, forces him to go at her pace. Whenever he tries to hurry her along, she claps her hands down on his shoulders and smirks. He’s hit with the urge to smack the look off her face, and it catches him by surprise. His cock flags inside her.

It takes him longer than usual to come, and when it finally happens, his orgasm is lackluster, feeling more like exhausted relief than sexual satisfaction.

Part of him wants to leave and drag himself back to the Bambi Kino, but then she pulls a scratchy blanket over their bodies and he allows himself to relax into the mattress.

“I don’t know your name.” He pauses. “I’m Paul.” 

“Katja.”

They lie facing each other, and Paul studies her sharp, angular face.

The first time he notices the scars is when she brings her hand up to stroke his cheek. He catches her wrist in his hand and peers at it, rubbing his finger along the thin, bumpy lines that cross her veins like bridges.

He half expects her to pull away, but she only regards him with a blasé look in her eyes.

“Did someone hurt you?” He worries his lip between his teeth and glances away to stare at a spot of exposed sheetrock on the wall.

“No.” Her pulse stays steady, and he presses down on the vein, feeling it flutter against his finger.

“What happened then?” He meets her eyes again as she gently pulls her wrist away and makes a sawing motion with her other hand. Paul frowns in confusion and pushes himself up on his elbow.

“I don’t understand.”

“I do it,” she explains. “When I think I am cold on the inside.” Paul startles and instinctively reaches for her, wanting to pull her closer.

“You shouldn’t hurt yourself,” he admonishes. She laughs like she would at a foolish child.

“It is not bad. I remember I am warm inside.”

“Doesn’t it hurt?”

“It is great pleasure.”

“That’s—”

She cuts him off with a wet, heated kiss, and he finds himself moaning into her mouth.

“You do not understand, schatzi. But maybe one day you will see,” she whispers, “that pain makes pleasure.”

 

*******

** John. **

He's busy watching Yoko sleep. 

She’s always beautiful, but something about her changes in her sleep. She becomes softer, the blank look on her face relaxes into something demure and peaceful. It’s calming — watching Yoko sleep.

Except John can only do one thing for so long. His eyes are starting to glaze over and his stomach is rumbling obtrusively every few minutes.

As he hauls himself to his feet and slips on one of his short, silk dressing gowns, he considers getting Yoko to go with him but can’t bring himself to wake her.

The kitchen, of course, is bare. None of them are doing very much eating lately. The liquor cabinet, though, is fully stocked. Paul’s poison of choice.

John groans dramatically and stomps through the house. He knocks nice and loudly on Paul’s door. A year ago he wouldn’t have needed to knock, but things are different between them now.

When Paul doesn’t answer, John pushes the door open with an annoyed huff.

“Paul? Where the fuck are you?” He ducks his head inside the door and frowns when he sees the empty bed. The sheets are tangled, the phone is sitting off the hook buzzing. “Paul?” he asks a little louder as he steps into the room, pausing to let his eyes adjust. The light in the bathroom is shining under the door, and John tiptoes up to the door to see if he can hear anything.

Silence.

John bangs on the door. “Paul,” he barks. “I’m coming in.” He jerks the knob and is surprised to find it locked. “Christ — look, I’m hungry. Can we go out and get something? It’s not too late yet.” John sticks his ear right up against the door to listen. “I know you’re in there, Paul. Stop fucking around.”

The door suddenly swings open with such force that John falls forward, tumbling into Paul and sending them both careening backward. John grabs ahold of Paul’s shoulders to keep himself standing. He can feel little tremors underneath his hands, as if Paul’s been out in the cold. John steps back and frowns, looking Paul up and down.

He’s unnaturally pale, but his cheeks are flushed a pretty pink, like a little porcelain doll a girl might display on her shelf. He’s in only an oversized long-sleeved t-shirt that just barely covers his crotch. John aches to bury his face between Paul’s bare, slender thighs.

“What do you want, John?” He eventually croaks. “Where’s Yoko?” John waves his hand dismissively and frowns.

“Sleeping. What’s wrong with you? You look awful.” Paul bristles — his eyes harden and his mouth twists into an ugly scowl.

“Nothing,” he snaps. “I’m fine.” John sniffs and wrinkles his nose. The stale air’s filled with the sour scent of vomit and blood, heavy and metallic. He feels a little thrum of anxiety.

“It smells weird in here,” he says slowly. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“I drank a little too much okay? Can’t a bloke puke without it being some big event.” Paul crosses his arms angrily, and John pales.

“What the fuck is _that?”_ he asks, abruptly grabbing Paul’s wrist. His sleeve is soaked through, stained a dull maroon, and John’s hand comes away covered in red when Paul pushes him away. It reminds him of Julian’s finger paints.

“Get the fuck off me!” Paul shouts, voice raw like he’s just finished singing Long Tall Sally.

“Jesus Christ. Come here.” John grabs him before he can dart away and yanks his sleeve up.

“John, please!”

Vomit rises in John’s throat when he takes in the blood dripping down Paul’s wrist, seeping from the phalanx of scars crossing his wrist. They’re painstakingly straight, evenly spaced, roughly the same length — good ole Paul the Perfectionist. His blood falls to the floor like Rorschach inkblots, creating a pretty little pattern. Is it a butterfly? A woman’s vagina?

“Are you trying to _kill yourself?”_ John snaps, and Paul recoils like he’s been slapped.

“Oh you’d love that wouldn’t you?” He snorts a short, ugly laugh. “No I’m not trying to bloody kill myself.” He doesn’t sound convinced when he says it.

“Then _why?_ ” John reaches for him again, distressed, but Paul jerks away and guards his wrist against his chest.

“It reminds me I’m warm on the inside,” he says as if he’s reciting an old quote. “You know, when I feel cold.”

So now they’re talking in riddles?

John squints at Paul, trying to catch a glimpse of his pupils. Maybe he’s high. Either way, it scares John.

“You sound mental.” His hand hovers over Paul’s shoulder, afraid to touch. “Please tell me what’s going on.” Paul shudders, his face crumpling.

“Leave me alone, John,” he whispers. “I want to be alone. Please.” Blood starts seeping between the fingers holding his wrist.

“You need to bandage your arm. You’ll get it all infected.”

“Fine.”

“Do you want some help?”

“No.” Paul turns his back and curls inward.

“Let me help you, baby.”

This time Paul lets John touch him, leaning in and shuddering. John sits him down on the edge of the tub and starts digging around for bandages. “Do you have anything I can use to disinfect it?”

“Vodka.”

John sputters a surprised laugh, but Paul’s wearing a straight face. “I'm serious. I’ve got some in the liquor cabinet.”

“This is really fucked up, Macca,” John announces sarcastically, an attempt to hide his fear. He moves through the house in a daze, stumbling in the dark. When he gets to the kitchen, he leans over the sink and vomits, splattering the backsplash.

Back in the bathroom, John half expects to find Paul dead in a pool of blood, but he’s right where John left him, a cigarette in his left hand. His right arm is still bleeding, little droplets sliding onto his lap like raindrops.

Paul cries out in surprise — and pain — when John scrubs the cuts with a vodka soaked rag. John makes comforting cooing noises like he would for Julian, leaning in to cover Paul’s face with sweet butterfly kisses. Normally Paul would pull away in embarrassment, but John can tell he doesn’t feel well. His defenses are down.

When his arm is bandaged — a disorderly collection of small bandaids stuck together — John ushers him into the bedroom. To John’s surprise, he goes willingly, collapsing down on the bed like a rag doll. The fight is drained out of him, replaced with something more sinister: anguish, defeat, exhaustion.

John climbs into bed next to him and squeezes him tightly. He’s unfamiliarly soft, bloated from the alcohol, and it only makes John hold him closer.

“Yoko’s gonna come looking for you,” he says dully.

“I don’t care.”

“Yes you do.”

John falls silent, rebuked.

“Have you ever done this before?” He rubs a bandage with his finger, and Paul exhales shakily, stomach moving under John’s hand.

“No,” he eventually says stiffly. Then, like an afterthought: "Never had any reason to until now.”

“I, uh, I’m sorry,” John says lamely. He knows he should say something more, something substantial or profound, but he doesn’t want to make any promises he can’t keep.

_“You can come to me whenever you feel down. I love you. I’ll always help you. Please don’t hurt yourself. I can’t lose you. I love you. I love you. I love you.”_

Paul sighs disappointedly, a sound so quiet John almost doesn’t hear it.

“It’s alright.” He scoots away from John, curling into the fetal position. “I think I’d like to be alone now. Thanks for the help.” His voice is monotone, emotionless — the voice of a man who feels no present and sees no future.

“What if you hurt yourself again?”

“I won’t.” Paul rolls over to face him. “I feel better now. I just needed to remind myself, you know, that I’m alive. Sometimes I can’t tell if I am or not.”

It’s a startlingly honest confession coming from Paul, and John is momentarily speechless.

“I — okay. If you’re, well, if you’re sure.” John’s tongue feels clumsy in his mouth. He doesn’t remember how to talk to Paul. They used to share a language, but it’s dying out along with them. The Beatles, their empire, their love. — all of it withering away.

“I’m sure.”

“I love you.” John presses a soft kiss to Paul’s chapped lips, but he makes no move to return it. His eyes are squeezed shut, tears tangled in his long lashes.

“I know you did.”

It isn’t until a few nights later — after a painful day at the studio — that the past tense registers in John’s mind. He’s fooling around with Yoko when he remembers.

She’s got his cock in her mouth, but he suddenly starts to soften, and she lets him fall from her lips, frowning.

“Are you feeling alright?” John clumsily stumbles off the bed and shoves his underwear on.

“Yes, yes, fine,” he says absently as he gropes around for his dressing gown. “I just need to talk to Paul.”

Before she can say anything else, he’s running down the stairs toward Paul’s room. He starts talking before he’s even opened the door. “I still love you, you stupid twat. How could you not realize that?”

Paul’s head snaps up and he stares at John like a startled animal, cagey and twitchy. 

“Get out, John!” he shouts, spittle flying from his mouth. His eyes are glassy, his face gaunt and pale. He looks worse than he did earlier, hiding behind his instruments and singing his stupid, granny shite song. In the studio he’d looked like a bigheaded, egotistical prick. Now he looks like a scared little boy.

“What’re you doing?” John asks dumbly, even though it’s painfully obvious: the razor catching the light in Paul’s left hand, the angry, red lines on his right arm, that nauseating metallic smell thick like musk. Paul drops the razor on his lap. Blood is oozing from the neat little cuts, and John moans, turning his head and gagging.

“I just needed to feel something different, okay?! At least I’m not _high.”_ He snarls the word at John like a slur, and, despite his concern, John’s eyes almost roll all the way back in his head. It’s always about the fucking heroin, like Paul can’t help but take the jab.

“Oh go to hell, Paul. You belong in a fucking institution, mate. Lots of people do H. Only closet queers and spastics do the kind of shit you’re doing.”

John knows he’s gone too far when Paul whimpers and hunches forward, smearing the duvet with blood.

Instantly John deflates, guilt burning in his gut. “Ah Christ, Paul, I’m sorry. I’m just worried about you. This shit isn’t normal.” He pauses and swallows hard. “You’re really scaring me, baby. Please talk to me.”

“There’s not much left to say—”

“Do you still love me?”

Paul looks up sharply, an unreadable expression on his face. They stare at each other for several seconds before Paul nods.

“Always.” Then, smiling wryly, “I never really realized how short ‘always’ was until now. Blink and it’s over, right?”

“What?—”

“Yoko’s upstairs, Johnny. You should go.”

The smell of blood follows John through the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is very angsty and sad so I'm sorry. Ngl I wasn't sober at all when I wrote this so that's probably why it's the way it is. 
> 
> I've been having a lot of writers block over Summer Rose, but this idea came to me yesterday and I decided to write it. I'll hopefully get back to Summer Rose soon!
> 
> Comments are always appreciated :-)


	2. The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! Life is busy again ugh. School starts this week and I've been working like non-stop lately, so yeah. I really want to get back into Summer Rose, but I've still got some major writer's block. I'm hoping I can work through it soon enough. 
> 
> This story wasn't originally going to have a second chapter, but then I decided I'd do one more. There is a referenced character death at the very end. Once again, lots of self-harm mentioned. 
> 
> Obvs. the chapter title is taken from the song off Abbey Road.
> 
> Enjoy!

** John. **

John’s worried about Paul. At the studio, he’d seemed off. He was too quiet, too submissive, too jumpy, too distracted. John asked him several times if he was ill, but Paul only offered vague, mumbling answers in response. 

It had made John anxious, thrown him for a loop. He’d gone into the session fully ready to hurt Paul in some way, but as soon as he'd caught sight of Paul’s drawn, waxen face, the urge leached out of him. Consequently, the session had gone smoothly.

Yoko’s got her face between his legs, making lewd sucking noises, but all John can think about is Paul and the haunted look on his face.

John’s cock starts to soften, and he gently tugs on Yoko’s hair like a rein. She sits back on her haunches and frowns.

“What’s wrong?” She reaches for him, but he pulls away and climbs out of the bed, pulling on his boxers.

“I’m feeling kind of sick.” He tugs his trousers and shirt back on. “I’m gonna get some air.”

He goes through the house looking for Paul and ends up outside the attic music room. First he’d checked the bedroom, but all he’d found was that dumb whore Franny Schwartz sleeping away as if she owned the fucking place. He jiggles the door handle and is annoyed — and a little alarmed — to find it locked.

“Hey Paul, open the door.” He knocks a few times and tacks on, unnecessarily, “it’s me.” When Paul doesn’t answer, he agitatedly shifts his weight and knocks again. “Paul,” he calls out, “stop being a prick and let me in.”

The door finally swings open and they stand face-to-face, close enough for John to smell the whiskey on Paul’s breath.

“Whatcha need John?” His head droops to the side, lazily resting against the door frame, as he watches John with glazed eyes.

“Can I come in?” John shifts his weight and gives Paul a once-over. His dressing gown is hanging open, and John gets an eyeful of his naked body, covered only by a pair of lavender bikini boxer briefs.

“Yeah,” he says, unsteadily stepping aside. “Where’s Yoko?”

“The bedroom.” John plops down on the piano bench, still warm from Paul’s body, and absently plays a little melody as Paul shuts and locks the door. John’s fingers accidentally slip and he hits a bad chord, the dissonance ringing in the air. He immediately winces and drops his hands into his lap, spinning around on the bench. “What’ve you been up to?”

Paul sits on the couch and rests a half-finished whiskey bottle against his thigh, long fingers wrapped around the neck.

“Just messing around. Couldn’t sleep.” He tips his head back and takes a long pull from the bottle, Adam’s apple bobbing with each hard swallow.

“Writin’ a new song, then?”

“Maybe. It’s not much right now, just a few chords.” Paul’s voice is slurred and monotone, almost bored. They sit in silence for a few minutes, Paul shifting to stretch out on the couch, and John fiddling with his fingers.

“I saw your newest slut downstairs,” he says, apropos of nothing, not missing the way Paul tenses and sucks in a sharp breath.

“If you came up here to be an arse to me, I’d appreciate it if you just skipped to your worst insult and then left. I’m tired.”

“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” John mutters. “She _is_ a bit of a whore. I know that’s why you’re sleeping with her.”

“John, I’m serious.” Paul sits up and stares at John with his sad, droopy eyes rimmed with red. John still remembers how Paul’s eyes used to sparkle, crinkled at the edges with premature smile lines.

“Fine, fine. I didn’t mean to make you mad. You take everything so bloody seriously.”

“Of course I do! You’re insulting my girlfriend, you arse.”

John can’t hold back the sarcastic snort he lets out, shaking his head and exaggeratedly wiping a fake tear out of his eye.

“Paul, c’mon lad, she’s not your _girlfriend._ She won’t last another couple of weeks. I know you.” Paul glowers, prim eyebrows furrowing, and takes a disgruntled pull from the whiskey bottle.

“So you _did_ come up here to insult me. Lovely.”

“Fuck you.” John holds his hand out and gestures toward the whiskey bottle, making a “grabby” motion with his fingers. Paul rolls his eyes and passes the bottle.

“Shouldn’t you be fucking Yoko by now?”

“Wasn’t feeling it.” John shrugs and, at Paul’s raised eyebrow, makes an indignant sound. “What? I honestly wasn’t feeling it!”

“We’ll that’s a first,” Paul drawls as he elegantly crosses one long leg over the other. “Used to be you were _always_ feeling it.”

John hums in response and moves to the couch, curling up in the corner opposite Paul. He pulls out a cigarette and offers the wrinkled box of Gitanes to Paul — a peace offering. 

“Are you okay, Paul?” he asks softly after they light up and smoke for several minutes in companionable silence. Paul immediately turns to him with suspicious eyes, frowning.

“Fine. Why?”

“I don’t know…” John picks at a thread on his shirt. “Guess you just seem sad.”

“I’m not sad. I’m fine.” Paul heaves himself off the coach, absently passing John the whiskey, and grabs a wooden box off the piano. “Want some?” he asks as he lifts the lid and pulls out a baggie of weed, effectively ending the conversation. John sighs but nods anyway.

“Sure. Ta.” They both fall silent as Paul rolls the joint in a business-like fashion, sealing it with a practiced swipe of his tongue.

The cloudy, thick smoke lazily floats above their heads as they pass the joint back and forth. They don’t say much as they smoke — they don’t need to. This is a familiar routine. John leans his head back and enjoys the way his head grows heavier, sinking into the soft cloth couch.

“You mind if I play?” Paul asks after a while, and John cracks an eye open before giving a tiny shake of his head. Paul moves to the piano and starts to play, fingers dancing expertly across the keys. John watches through heavy-lidded eyes, mesmerized. Paul has always carried himself in a particular way that gives him an aura of grace, moving with elegant ease.

“You’re so fuckin’ beautiful,” John blurts out, and Paul’s fingers slip, landing on a bad chord. He hesitates half a second before he starts playing again, something slow and wandering, snatches of an incomplete melody.

“Thanks,” he finally says. John shifts his weight on the couch and tries to ignore the tingling in his groin. Weed always makes him horny.

“I’m serious.” John pauses and licks his lips, trying to conjure some spit in his dry mouth. “Would you wanna fool around or something?” John cringes at the vulnerability in his voice. Paul’s hands abruptly still, suspended over the piano, as he visibly tenses. The room goes silent, and John itches to fill it, to make a glib remark and joke his request away, but he keeps his mouth shut, waiting.

“I don’t think that’s such a good idea,” Paul says hesitantly. He swivels around on the piano bench to face John and offers up a weak smile. “I’m probably too sloshed to get it up anyway.” His face flushes lightly, and John awkwardly shifts on the couch, running a hand through his hair.

“Right, I shouldn’t have suggested it.”

“No, no, it’s okay,” Paul says quickly. “I’m not upset or anything.”

John wants to laugh out loud. Of course Paul is upset. They don’t do _that_ anymore. Not since Yoko and heroin and Paul’s revolving door of women. Not since India and a collection of postcards. But John thinks about it all the time: the feeling of Paul’s milky, smooth skin; the vein running along the length of his velvety prick; the quiet, shaky breaths that precipitate his orgasm. John has always liked his sex loud and boisterous, but Paul is a more subtle lover, soft and delicate — a gentle dominance.

“Do you still think about me?” John asks, loose-lipped from the alcohol and weed. Paul lowers his eyes and gnaws on his lip.

“Yeah,” is all he says, voice barely a whisper, and John delights in the way his breath hitches. His dressing gown is rumpled, falling off one shoulder, but he doesn’t bother to fix it. John stares at the little bulge in his skimpy boxers, imagines how good Paul would look with his cock hard and straining, the material darkened with precum. John grits is teeth when his prick stirs, hardening obviously in his trousers. Paul arches an eyebrow with a ghost of a smirk on his lips. “Weed really does make you horny, son,” he quips, voice still slurred, and John playfully glares at him, thankful for the ease in tension.

“Can’t help it when you’re sitting there looking so good,” John croons, delighting in the way Paul rolls his eyes and shakes his head in amusement.

“You’re barmy.” Then, growing suddenly serious again, “if you really want to… well, I guess I can try. For you.” John’s eyes widen, and he feels his heart stutter in his chest.

“Are you sure?” John knows Paul’s only saying this because he isn’t sober, and, as if reading John’s mind, he grabs the forgotten whiskey bottle off the floor and tips his head back. He grimaces and coughs, irritatedly wiping away a few drops that dribble down his chin, before nodding firmly.

“I still don’t know if I’ll be able to, but I can do you, you know.” John wants to ask him what made him change his mind, but doesn’t want to the moment to pass, afraid that Paul will back out.

“Well how about you get over here then,” John says comically, waggling his eyebrows. Paul dutifully crosses the room, letting the dressing gown slide to the floor, and climbs on top of John.

It’s not very good, and John half wishes he’d never suggested it. He knows this is going to be their last time, and he would’ve preferred they go out with a bang rather than a drunken whimper. 

Paul never manages to get more than half hard, his prick hanging there like an undercooked noodle. Their kisses are messy and wet; Paul’s too spitty, and John cringes at the taste of his sour saliva. They can’t connect like they used to — there’s no harmony.

But true to his word, Paul gives John a hand job, stroking him off hard and fast. John promptly comes all over his hand with a sharp cry.

After he catches his breath, he puts a hand on Paul’s shoulder and squeezes. “I’ll get you something to clean that up with.”

When he returns with a handful of toilet paper, Paul smiles gratefully and reaches for it, but John shakes his head. “Let me.”

He starts to mop up Paul’s hand but stops when he sees the crude lines, not as neat as the ones made with his left hand, crossing his wrist. They look fresh, still puckered and pink, and John tastes whiskey rising up in the back of his throat. Paul quickly yanks his arm away and hugs himself tightly.

“Stop looking at me like that,” he snaps. John shakes his head and rubs his eyes.

“You said you wouldn’t do that anymore and now you’re doing it on your other arm! What the fuck Paul?”

“Oh like you care,” he spits, abruptly getting off the couch and unsteadily pulling his boxers back up. “I _hate_ when you do this — act like you care about me. It just tricks me into thinking that maybe everything’ll be okay, except then you’re a fuckin’ arsehole to me the next day. It’s fucking with me mind, John. I can’t take it!” Paul grabs his dressing gown and angrily pulls it on. “And I’m the fucking idiot who falls for it every time.”

“Don’t put all this on me, mate,” John snaps. “You’ve been acting like a controlling bastard lately. You’re impossible to be around half the time!” John yanks his trousers and shirt back on, balling his hands into fists at his side.

“I wouldn’t have to be so controlling if any of you would _do anything_ ,” Paul shouts. “It’s like I’m the only one who cares anymore. You three drag your fucking feet through each session like you’re facing the gallows.”

“The rest of us have grown up, Paul. You’re the only one who wants it to be like the ‘good ole days,’” John sneers. “It’s about time you faced reality and pulled your head out of your arse. We’ve all got lives outside of The Beatles. Maybe you should try getting one too.”

Paul’s face crumples in pain for half a second before he pulls himself together, a bland, unaffected mask coming down like a curtain.

“I’d like you to leave,” he says softly, and John barks out a harsh laugh.

“Gladly.” He stomps out of the room and slams the door shut.

As he crawls into bed with Yoko, he can’t get the image of Paul’s wrist out of his mind — the scars crowded together like rods in a fasces. He sees them when he closes his eyes, remembers finding Paul the other day dripping with blood.

John suddenly grabs his stomach and sits up as he starts to dry heave. Yoko opens her eyes in alarm and sits up to rub John’s back.

“John, John, what’s wrong?” she asks, but John only manages to shake his head before he starts to cry. He slumps over in her arms and lets her rock him side to side, making soft shushing noises in his ear.

“I’m worried Paul’s going to kill himself,” he whispers after the sobs have finally stopped.

\---

“I’ve had enough. I want a divorce, like my divorce from Cynthia. It’s given me a great feeling of freedom.”

The room is completely silent. Ringo’s face reflects more relief than anything else, but shock is written clearly across Paul — and to a lesser degree — Linda’s. John smirks, feeling the power of his words echoing in the air; the emotional high rolls over him in waves.

He doesn’t see much of Paul after that, or he tries his best not to. He’s too busy living his fucking life to spare poor, King McCartney much thought.

Except one day he gets a call in the middle of the night.

He’s still half asleep as he rolls over to answer it, growling a groggy “what?” into the receiver. At first the line is silent, and John grits his teeth. “Look, it’s the middle of the fucking night. I’m hanging up—”

“John, wait!” Paul’s voice crackles over the line, and John immediately sits up, glancing over at Yoko in bed beside him.

“Paul?” he hisses. “What’re you calling me for?”

“I—” Paul audibly swallows and makes a wet clicking sound in the back of his throat. “I just need to talk to someone,” he finally whispers, voice breaking. Anxiety twists in John’s stomach.

“I’m in bed. Let me go somewhere private. Call me back in five minutes.”

John quietly slips out of bed and tiptoes to the kitchen. As soon as the phone rings he pounces on it, gripping the plastic so tightly that his knuckles hurt. “Paul?” he whispers.

“Yeah.” Paul takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry for bothering you.”

“It’s okay.” John pauses and anxiously twists the cord around his finger. “What’s up?”

“Have you ever wanted to die? Like seriously _die?”_ John hears ice clinking against a glass, followed by Paul taking an audible gulp.

“Paul,” John says gently, “are you drinking?”

“Yeah.” John sighs and nervously lights a cigarette.

“I have wanted to die before, I guess,” he continues slowly. “But I feel better now, after the primal scream therapy. It’s really helped.” Then, the million dollar question, “do you feel like you want to die Paul?”

“Maybe.” Paul takes another swallow of his drink and sucks in on a cigarette. “Almost cut my fuckin’ vein open earlier. There was so much blood.” He chuckles, voice hollow. “I don’t know who I am anymore, Johnny.” John takes a shaky breath, the image of Paul’s arm drenched in blood vivid in his mind. Anxiety continues to churn in his stomach.

“What do you mean?” he finally manages to ask, and Paul takes an unsteady breath.

“I’ve been in a band with you since I was 15 years old,” he says frustratedly. “I don’t know who I’m supposed to be if I’m not John Lennon’s partner.” John winces and starts to pace around the kitchen, the cord tugging him back when he gets too far.

“I know,” he finally settles on saying.

“I don’t understand why it had to end,” Paul says, and John immediately bristles, rolling his eyes.

“You’re the one who made it official, mate. Don’t know if you remember that.”

“Oh please,” Paul snaps. “You’re the one who asked for a fucking divorce. The Beatles were over long before I said anything.”

“Whatever, Paul,” John says wearily. “Look, I’m tired. Are we finished? I’d rather not start arguing.”

“Wait, no, don’t go yet!” Paul says, voiced tinged with panic. “Just — let me hear your voice for a bit more. I promise I won’t argue.” John frowns and forces out an awkward chuckle.

“Uh, well, what do you want to talk about then?”

“I don’t care. Anything.” Paul pauses. “I’m scared. I woke up earlier facedown on my pillow and for a second I didn’t think I’d be able to move. I could’ve died, you know, and it was so fucking hard to just roll myself over.” Paul scoffs. “I don’t recognize myself in the mirror.”

“Does Linda know about the cutting?” John suddenly asks, and Paul’s silent for several seconds before he takes a shaky breath.

“Yeah. S’kinda hard to miss ‘em, you know — the scars, that is.”

“Has she seen you do it?”

“Nope. You’re the only one who has.”

“God, Paul. I never imagined all this shit would happen.”

“No one did.”

John belatedly realizes Paul’s crying when a poorly-suppressed sob crackles over the line. It’s an uncharacteristic display of emotion, and John feels embarrassed for him.

“Oh Paul,” he says, hating how pitying his voice sounds. “Don’t cry, love.”

“No, no, I’m not — fuck, I’m sorry,” he hiccups. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay,” John says soothingly. “It’s okay. I understand. It’s better to let it out. You’ll feel better.”

John listens to Paul sobbing for only a few minutes before he pulls himself together, forever playing the part of PR Man Paul.

“Sorry.” His voice is raw and gruff. “I think I should go. I’ll talk to you later.”

“Wait, Paul—”

But the phone clicks in his ear, and he feels dread settling like a rock in the pit of his stomach.

The next time he gets a call in the middle of the night, it’s Linda McCartney cordially — _accusingly_ — informing him that Paul is dead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this was so sad?? 
> 
> Leave a comment and lmk what you thought!


	3. Coda

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't going to write another chapter for this, but this chapter honestly wrote itself. I feel like it's going to be a tad controversial?? I wrote the beginning a while ago and then today wrote the rest of it. It totally wasn't the direction I was expecting to take it in, it just kind of happened. 
> 
> This includes a possibly controversial (and mostly weird) pairing. Also TW descriptions of blood/suicide at the beginning. Skip to below the first --- if you don't want to read that.
> 
> Uh so yeah. This happened.
> 
> I reference Paul's last words to Linda there in the beginning part.

**Linda.**

She finds him on the couch in the music room. She’s never seen so much blood in her life. It’s running down his arms like rivulets of water, gathering in rippling puddles, soaking into the carpet. The smell is so thick, she can taste it in her mouth like she’s sucking on pennies. His pulse flutters under her fingers as she desperately tries to stem the bleeding, holding his wrists with her hands. 

She screams at Heather to call an ambulance, even though she knows it’s too late. He makes an awful gurgling sound in his throat and blood foams up bright and pink on his lips. She cradles his head in her lap and starts to stroke his cheek. He’s still so warm.

“You’re sitting outside with your guitar,” she whispers. “It's a fine spring day. We're having a picnic in the woods. The bluebells are all out, and the sky is clear blue.”

The paramedics arrive and take him to the hospital. He’s declared DOA – dead on arrival. She immediately goes to a private office to make calls. If she keeps herself moving and working, she won’t have time to break down. 

She has so many important calls to make — Mike, Jim, her parents, her brother, George, Ringo — but she calls John first.

Linda has always harbored her suspicions about them. Paul had looked at John differently than he did anyone else, and he was always so gentle with John. Even when they argued, Paul’s hands would flutter at his sides, fingers clenching, like he wanted to reach out and pull John against his chest. 

But after she calls John, she _knows_ they were lovers. The words, unnecessarily accusatory, are scarcely out of her mouth —  _“John, I’m just calling to let you know that Paul is dead. He killed himself. Thanks.” —_ before John reacts. He lets out a sound that chills her to the bone. It’s something primal, a groan that seems to tear itself out of his throat. He starts to sob, gasping into the phone, moaning why and how and oh God no. No, no, no. 

“He’s too beautiful to be dead. Not Paul. My Paul.” Linda winces and stares down at the blood staining her shirt. _My Paul,_ she thinks, _not yours._

“I’m sorry,” she says, even though she’s the one with the dead husband, not him. 

Then Yoko’s suddenly on the phone, demanding to know what’s going on, and Linda lets out a laugh that borders on hysterical. “Paul’s dead. He killed himself.” 

“Oh.” Yoko pauses. “How terrible.” The phone clicks in Linda’s ear and the awful sound of John’s sobbing is finally gone. 

She takes a deep breath and dials Jim McCartney’s number. 

\---

They’d talked about it once, when they were drunk or high or both. Paul had turned to her, head lolling to the side like a rag doll, and given her a look so serious it made her uncomfortable. 

“Whenever I die, don’t put me in a coffin. I don’t wanna be in a box underground for the rest of my life, turning into a skeleton and all that stuff. Just cremate me, you know? Burn me up and spread the ashes somewhere nice, like.” 

The warning signs were all there. In hindsight, she should’ve connected the dots. When she got home from taking the kids to school and found him still in bed, stinking of booze with an overflowing ashtray within arms reach and a joint smoldering in his fingers, she should’ve connected the dots. When she noticed the cuts creeping up his forearm higher and higher. When she went down on him and felt the same rough lines at the top of his thighs, she should’ve connected the dots. 

She honors his wishes. They hold a small, private funeral on the farm in Scotland — just the Beatles and Beatle wives. They awkwardly stand around watching each other, picking at the buffet of hors d'oeuvre she’d set out, feverishly cooking late into the night. John looks like shit. His face is gaunt and his bloodshot eyes stare blankly ahead, like he’s not all there. 

“They held a very lovely vigil outside Abbey Road yesterday,” Ringo says in that gentle way of his, catching Linda’s attention. He’s balancing Mary on his lap, occasionally bouncing his legs up and down to make her giggle. Linda gives him a wan smile, and he continues talking, like he needs to fill the silence. “They laid out a bunch of flowers and lit candles, played his songs and all that. I saw something about it on the news.” 

“They’re holdin’ ‘em all over the place,” George says dryly. “Seems like it’ll never end.” Ringo winces at the tone of his voice, and shoots him a look.

“George,” he hisses. “Please.” Linda pretends not to notice the way Ringo nods toward her and mutters something in George’s ear, chastising him like a child. Pattie smiles apologetically, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes.

“Should we spread the ashes now?” Linda asks, voice strained. Everyone looks at her, their expressions resigned and pained. A tear races its way down Maureen’s cheek, and Linda feels a stab of jealousy because Mo had so much more time with him, knew him before the end. Sometimes Linda dreams about Beatle Paul shaking his head on the stage, that look of pure, unadulterated joy lighting up his face that she only ever got to see in pictures. It’s a nasty, petty thought that she quickly banishes to the back of her mind.

“George, John, you two should bring your guitars and play something,” Mo suggests softly. “Paul would like that.” 

“Oh I’m sure he would,” John sneers, pushing himself off the wall and swaying on his feet. “How about Ringo bring his drums? We’ll make it a proper Beatles reunion.” Then, gesturing to the urn sitting on the mantle, “after all, this _is_ the last time all four Beatles will be in the same room together.” Ringo and George’s faces both reflect their shock, and Pattie glares at John as she moves to comfort Mo, who starts to openly sob into her hands. 

“Can’t stop being a prick for five fucking minutes can you?” George snaps. “He’s dead for Christ’s sake. Can you give us some time to mourn before you go shitting all over him?” At first Linda’s surprised by George’s anger, but then she remembers that they were friends long before John’n’Paul, and she aches for him. 

But there’s something she knows that George doesn’t. John Lennon is mourning the loss of his other half, not a best mate like the rest of them. 

“It’s okay, George,” Linda says gently. “You don’t have to bring your guitar if you don’t want to, John.” 

“I don’t want to sing without Paul. I _won’t.”_ He crosses his arms over his chest and furiously blinks back tears. “I can’t.” A harsh sob suddenly escapes his mouth, and he turns abruptly on his heels and goes outside, slamming the door behind him. Linda expects Yoko to follow him, but she only stares at the spot he’s vacated, a blank look on her face. 

“I’ll go get him,” Linda says, feeling like Atlas shouldering the burden of the world. “I know he’ll want to be there to spread the ashes.” 

It doesn’t take Linda long to find him. He’s hunched over by the side of the house, bracing himself with one hand against the wall as he vomits. Linda goes to him and instructs him to kneel down so it doesn’t splatter. 

“Oh God,” he moans. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” He's sick one last time before he sits back on his heels and pants. “Fuck.” 

“Shh, you’ll be okay,” Linda soothes, smoothing his sweaty hair out of his face. “Just breathe.” 

“It’s all my fault, you know. I did that to him. I broke him, wore him down until he had nothing left. I’m so sorry.” He hiccups and drops his head into his hands. “You should hate me. I killed your fucking husband.” 

“You didn’t kill him, John,” Linda says patiently, though her voice is strained. “I don’t blame you.” 

“Well you should,” he spits. “You really fucking should.” 

“Come on, lets get you cleaned up so we can spread the ashes.”

Linda rubs tears out of her eyes before John can see them, and they walk back to the house with their arms linked. Yoko stares at them suspiciously as Linda helps him to the bathroom. She gently pushes him onto the empty toilet lid and cleans his face with a warm washcloth. 

“His stuff’s still here,” he says quietly as Linda pours him a cup of mouthwash. She stiffens and nods, glancing at the cluttered counter. Paul’s shaving cream and razor are sitting out, tiny hairs caught in the blades where he’d forgotten to clean it. The cap of his deodorant is off, and Linda compulsively closes it so it doesn’t dry out. 

“I haven’t been able to clear it out yet,” she says softly as she passes John the mouthwash. He gargles it quietly and spits it out in the sink. He picks up the bottle of Paul’s aftershave and takes a large whiff, eyes fluttering shut. 

“He was so effortlessly beautiful,” he says hoarsely. “The smoothest skin, that soft hair. I could’ve spent hours just touching him: his lips, his nose, his hands. God he had beautiful hands. I’d make him play piano for me just so I could watch his hands move.” 

Linda chokes on a sob, and John immediately reaches for her and pulls her into a tight embrace. She buries her face in his neck as he pets her hair, humming a song she doesn’t recognize. “He loved you so much, you know,” he murmurs. 

“I know.” She sniffs and leans back to look up at John. “But not as much as he loved you.” His face twists into a pained expression, and he darts his eyes away to stare at a spot past her head.

“Lets go spread the ashes.” 

It’s cold in the meadow, and Linda shivers as she doles out handfuls of Paul’s ashes. She gives more to John than she does the others, her eyes following him as he wanders off on his own, shoulders hunched.

She doesn’t quite know what to say as she starts to sprinkle the ashes, watching them catch and float away in the wind. Paul would know what to say if their positions were reversed. In the end she doesn’t say anything at all. Sometimes silence is better than words. 

Everyone troops back to the house together, and as they walk, she finds herself seeking out John’s eyes. They share a long look full of understanding. They’re the two halves of Paul’s soul, forever intwined. All he had to do was die to bring them together. The thought makes Linda feel sick, and she abruptly looks away. There had been a dangerous glint in John’s eyes. 

\---

He shows up on her doorstep two months later, shaking in only a thin t-shirt. She has a million questions on the tip of her tongue like why and how and what the hell, John, but her motherly instincts kick in and she drags him inside, immediately bundling him up and settling him in front of the fire.

“Good God, John.” She wraps him up in her arms. He’s nothing more than skin and bones, like a delicate baby bird. 

He falls asleep with his head in her lap, the fire casting shadows across his wan face. She leans her back against the couch and lets him sleep, methodically pulling her fingers through his hair. It’s matted and greasy, like he hasn’t washed for days. 

In the morning she makes him clean up, studiously ignoring Heather’s questioning looks. “He’s here for a short visit,” she halfheartedly explains. 

She takes him out on the horses, smiling at the way he grips the reins so tightly his knuckles turn white. “They can smell fear,” she says. “Better be careful.” 

“I must reek, then,” he jokes. 

They end up in Paul’s meadow, and Linda watches as John subtly scans the dead, frostbitten grass for any traces of black. 

“I’ve looked before,” she says gently. “You won’t find anything.” He startles, like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t, and flushes.

“How’ve you been holding up?” He gingerly settles on the cold ground and pats the spot beside him. Linda smiles wanly and finds herself pressing against his side. She tells herself it’s because it’s cold out and he’s warm, but something sinister still flutters in her stomach.

“I’ve been okay. Having the girls around helps.” She pauses and picks at a blade of grass. “What about you?” 

“Been better.” He shrugs one shoulder and bites at a nail. “Been getting back into drugs and all that stuff.” Linda clucks her tongue in disapproval. 

“Paul wouldn’t want you doing that,” she says, her tone more accusatory than she’d intended. John flinches and pulls his knees to his chest. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. 

“I know. It’s just hard to ditch the habit, especially when Yoko’s always offering it up.” 

“She’s no good for you,” Linda spits out without thinking, the words only registering in her mind after she says them. John stiffens, sharp jaw tightening, before he huffs out a strained laugh. 

“I know.” He lies back in the grass, folding his arms behind his head, and stares blankly at the gray sky. “But I’m afraid to be alone.” Linda’s surprised by John’s raw honesty. He’s not usually one for serious introspection. 

“Being alone is hard,” she agrees. “But you’re only hurting yourself by staying with her.” 

“I know.” He takes a deep breath and rolls onto his side, propping himself up with his elbow. “Christ, I miss him all the time, Lin.” 

The use of her nickname catches her off guard, and she lets out a nervous little giggle. John’s pupils are blown, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“I miss him too,” she whispers. For some reason, it feels like admitting defeat. John makes a hard sound in the back of his throat, and then they’re moving toward each other like magnets. John’s glasses dig into her nose as he smashes their lips together, but she doesn’t ask him to take them off. She wants him to be able to see her. 

John’s kisses are brutal — bordering on painful. His teeth pierce the skin of her lips, and when he pulls back, she can see her blood on his lips. It reminds her of Paul — the blood trickling down his chin, staining his beautiful lips. She jerks back and stares at John.

“Please,” he rasps. “I need it.” 

He rolls them over, his bulky erection poking her hip. She feels her skin going numb against the cold ground as John presses her down with an arm slung across her chest, right below her collarbone. 

He pants into her mouth as he unbuttons his trousers and pulls his cock out. He grits his teeth and shudders. “Fuck, Lin.” He fumbles with the zipper on her jeans, growling in frustration. 

“It’s okay,” she says, batting his hands away to do it herself. “Just breathe.” 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps as he pushes his fingers inside of her. She doesn’t know what he’s apologizing for, but she doesn’t bother to ask. She pushes down against his fingers, reaching up blindly to grip his shoulders, her hand curling over the protruding bones. His skin feels different from Paul’s — rougher, somehow. But he smells shockingly familiar, and she realizes with a pang that he’s wearing the same aftershave Paul used to wear. 

He pants into her mouth as he fucks her, and she can taste his tears on her lips like brine from the ocean. His thrusts are short and erratic, frenzied. She lifts her hips to meet him. The sound of their skin slapping together is starkly loud in the quiet of the meadow. Paul’s meadow. 

John shudders and pulls out right as he comes. It spurts across her bare belly, where her shirt’s ridden up. Tears are coursing down his cheeks, his mouth open in a silent sob. She immediately sits up and pulls him into her arms, rocking him side to side.

“Don’t cry. You’re okay. I’ve got you.” 

“You’re all that’s left. All I’ve got.” John clings to her, wrinkling her shirt in his hand. 

“I know.” Linda feels tears stinging her eyes, but she blinks them away. She’s tired of crying. 

They go back to the house. John seems frightened, like a small child afraid of the dark. He asks her if he can take a nap, and she lets him use the bedroom. 

When she goes to wake him up, she gasps in surprise. He's in one of Paul’s jumpers, though it looks awkwardly big on him. With his face buried in Paul’s pillow, only a shock of hair showing, she can almost pretend it’s Paul lying there. Almost.

She climbs in bed and wraps him in her arms, breathing in the scent of Paul on his skin. He makes a soft, mewling sound and burrows down closer to her, eyelids fluttering. 

In the morning, his driver arrives to take him on the long journey home. 

They stand awkwardly in the doorway, close but not quite touching. 

“Yoko and I are thinking of going to New York for a bit,” he eventually says. “Dunno how long we’ll be gone.”

“A change of scenery will do you some good,” she says softly. 

“Will you stay here? In Scotland?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She pauses. “I don’t think I’d want to leave the meadow. Is that silly?” 

He immediately shakes his head and grabs her hands in his, squeezing her fingers hard enough to hurt.

“It’s not silly at all.”

“You should try singing again. He would want that.” John flinches and drops her hands, casting his eyes downward to stare at the floor. 

“I don’t know if I can.” 

“I do.” She presses her hand against his chest, feeling his heart beating under her palm. “Sing for him and I’m sure the words will come.” 

They hug one last time before he leaves. She shuts the door as he drives away, quickly wiping away tears with her sleeve.

Linda doesn’t see John Lennon alive again. Another little piece of Paul gone. 

Years later, she receives a package in the mail.

Inside is Paul’s jumper that John took, neatly folded with care. She lifts it out of the box and presses it to her nose. Underneath is a single tape, the words ‘For Paul’ written in John’s sloppy handwriting. A small piece of paper is tucked inside the case. She carefully unfolds it.

_Lin,_

_I wrote these for Paul (and you). You were right. I sang to him and the words came._

_Love always, John_

_P.S. You were wrong. He didn’t love me more. He loved me differently. There was always room for both of us in his heart._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ???? Idk where this came from. 
> 
> I'm making good headway on the next chapter of Summer Rose, so hopefully I'll finish that up soon! :-) 
> 
> Feel free to leave comments on this. Lmk if you hated it (but don't be mean pls b/c I'm soft).


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